


man without hunger

by whiplash



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Food Issues, Gen, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-03-26 06:00:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt has a complicated relationship with food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

More often than not, dad comes home late.

Tonight’s yet another one of those nights. Matt sleeps lightly, hunched over the table with his head pillowed on skinny arms. He stirs when the door creaks, finding himself on his feet before he’s even fully awake. Dad catches him easily, ruffling Matt’s hair and asking him if he’s done his homework.

“Sure have,” Matt answers, hurrying past dad to set the table.

There’s food in the oven, a covered plate of macaroni with sliced hot dogs and tinned peas. Matt can’t cook anything fancy but any fool can learn how to boil pasta and open a tin can. That’s what grandma used to say, so it must be true. Dad eats his dinner cold, shoveling big forkfuls into his mouth and pausing only to ask Matt to pass the salt. His knuckles are dark and swollen, even though no match was scheduled for tonight.But experience has taught Matt not to ask too many questions. Not on nights like these.

“You’re a good boy," dad says as Matt brings him a cold beer. He twists the cap off and gulps down a good third of the bottle before asking again: “You do your homework?”

“All done,” Matt promises, sitting down to keep his dad company. Dad serves himself a second portion, smacking his lips appreciatively. Matt tries to focus on that – he’s done good by dad – rather than on the fact that there won’t be any leftovers for tomorrow. It’s hard though. There’s hardly a thing left in the cupboard and other than the beer, the fridge gapes empty. Matt had eaten dry cereal for breakfast that morning, wetting his fingers to get the last crumbs out of the package.

Now he looks at dad’s worn face, last week’s bruises just fading. Forcing away his fears and worries, he makes the call not to ask about money. It’s not that bad yet, he tells himself. There should be just enough left in the cupboard for him to make dinner for dad a few more nights. As for Matt, he’ll eat in school and go to bed without dinner for a little while. That’s okay. He’ll be fine.

If, sometimes, Matt’s too hungry to fall asleep at night, or too tired to pay attention to the teachers in school – well, that’s his secret. Dad never finds out.

And that’s all that matters.

xxx

If they misbehave, the nuns send them off to bed without dinner.

This is the first time it’s actually happened to him. _Defiant,_ Sister Beatrice had called him as she’d sent him up the stairs to the dormitories rather than along to the dining room with the other boys. _Sullen. Ungrateful._ She’s not wrong about the first two, but ironically Matt does find himself grateful to her. At least she’s treating him the same as she would the other boys.

More often than not Matt barely finds himself able to choke down his share of overcooked vegetables and cheap gristly meat. But even so, his stomach growls and twists now. It does nothing to drown out the sounds filtering through the old copper pipes. The hushed sound of Sister Anne reading a passage from the Old Testament blends with the symphony of dozens of spoons scraping against dozens of bowls. Soon the sounds will change: an hour and half of downtime before the lights go out for the night. Hushed conversations and mock fights will fill the air along with jokes both dumb and crude, muffled sobbing and whispered prayers.

Matt’s name’s never mentioned. As far as he can tell, his absence’s barely noted. He’s not missed. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t touch him. 

Nor does the gnawing hunger. It’s not the first time he’s gone without food. He’s made that choice himself plenty of times. They can’t punish Matt this way. Can’t hurt him by withholding food. Not when the hunger is just an old friend.


	2. Chapter 2

A few weeks before Christmas the lecture halls turn into battlefields.

It’s a war in which Matt fights alone against his surroundings, his focus pitched against the distraction of the scents and sounds around him. The pens scratching, the papers rustling, the chorus of hearts beating and lungs expanding – they don’t bother him as much as the cheerful jingles trickling in from outside, the snowflakes drifting down from the sky and the miniscule shift of snow on the roofs. It’s a relentless assault on his ears. 

The scents hit him the hardest though. He gives up on coffee, the bitter smell of cheap beans already filling the air to the point where it comes alive on his tongue. It blends with the stale stench of cigarettes, day-old sweat and too much perfume until he’s nearly gagging. Add to that the chemical reek of drugs and medications, the tang of blood and bile, the pong of unwashed bodies and bodily fluids and he feels like he knows all of their secrets. 

Nothing’s safe from him. Nothing’s hidden. And in return, he’s safe from nothing. The sounds feel like needles against his skin, the various scents force him to breathe through his mouth. He borrows cinnamon candy from Foggy. His tongue burns until it’s numb. He considers buying camphor to rub under his nose. It would leave him two senses down, but it’s better than the alternative. 

That is, until he finds another way to cope. A way to steady himself as waves of sensations crash against him. A way to finally focus. It begins with a bruise. His fingers find it, rubbing against it once, twice just to confirm its existence. The skin’s slightly swollen, somewhat warm. It hurts. Definitely a bruise. 

It should have ended there, his sense of touch confirming what his eyes had missed. It doesn’t though. 

Instead his fingers find that bruise again. He explores it. Digs blunt fingernails into it. Pinches the skin around it. Worries and teases. The little sparks of pain, they help. They become his focus. So he keeps doing it. Instead of healing the bruise grows, blossoming over his skin. Soon the entire arms throbs, turning stiff and sore. He knows it’s wrong. But it works. It works. 

Then, one afternoon during the most tedious of lectures, a hand closes over Matt’s wrist. He knows that hand, knows those fingers; thick and short, soft skin hiding a surprising amount of strength. Foggy pulls Matt’s hand away, trapping it under the table. He doesn’t let go and when Matt wriggles his fingers, the grip just tightens. 

When the lecture’s over, Foggy’s hand slides higher until he’s gently holding Matt’s bruised arm. They stand and walk together, a mirror image of how Matt will usually hold onto his friend. The crowd thins around them but Foggy doesn’t say anything. He talks, yes, ceaselessly. About the girl who sat a row ahead of them, about the game last night, about what they’ll have for dinner. But he doesn’t explain his actions and Matt… Matt’s too much of a coward to ask. 

A few hours later, it happens again. The world’s too loud and he can’t concentrate. He can feel the heat of the swollen flesh through the thick fabric of his sweater and the muscles of his arm twitch in response to even the lightest of touch. He works his fingers into the bruise, tension easing out of his body when- 

BANG 

Something small, hard and round slams against the wall next to his head. A ball, his mind translates. Matt jumps, the book which had been resting on his knees falling to the ground. His heart speeds up in his chest. It’s been a long time since something like that took him by surprise. 

“Dude,” Foggy says from across the room, his voice part amused, part exasperated. “You’re like a kid who just lost his first tooth. Stop poking your arm or that giant bruise of yours will never heal.” 

“Uhm,” Matt mumbles, lost for words. Foggy laughs at him. 

“If you can’t manage on your own,” he teases, “I’ll come over there and hold your hand again.” 

It's not an empty threat. After that Matt leaves the bruise alone. But he doesn’t forget. Doesn’t stop looking for ways to sharpen his focus.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s no big moment of revelation.

The answer comes to him slowly, over the course of a few stress-filled months. From winter to spring, it seems like he does nothing but study and sleep. Foggy, proving himself once again to be a better friend than Matt deserves, brings him tea and cold, congealed pizza on a semi-regular basis. Matt inhales the pizza and savors the tea, enjoying how it warms him up from the inside out. In addition, Foggy always offers to share his treats. Matt’s belly’s tied up in knots as is though; he instinctively shies away from the chemical reek of the snack bags and the artificially flavored cakes. 

“Smells like biohazardous waste,” he mumbles one night, too tired to remember why he can’t say things like that out loud. Picking up on Foggy’s answering snort, he sullenly adds: “And I’d _know_.

In response, Foggy steals Matt’s books, turns off the lights and proclaims it to be bedtime.

“I’m blind,” Matt points out, ineffectively batting at Foggy’s hands as they pluck away his headphones. Thanks to Stick’s training Matt knows ten different ways to send his roommate flying across the room, but instead he just allows himself to be pushed down on his back. “It’s not like ambient lighting’s gonna make a difference.”

“Well, mister smarty pants,” Foggy counters. “It’s five o’clock, Friday evening, in the middle of spring, at a university campus. There’s no ambient light. There’s no ambient anything. There’s just me turning off the lights to make a point. A symbolical point. Which, no surprise, has gone straight over your sleep-addled head.”

Matt falls asleep trying to think of a witty reply.

He wakes sixteen hours later, still exhausted and now behind on his reading schedule. He skips the next few meals and when Foggy brings him apology cookies, Matt mock-scowls and pushes them aside to make a point. A symbolical point. Which, judging by Foggy’s amused chuckle, does not go straight over his friend’s head.

The hunger… it helps though. It binds him inside his own body. Keeps his hearing from straying. Maybe the idea’s planted then, or maybe it had been planted a long time ago and this was just another shower of rain to aid its growth. Matt’s not sure. In the end it doesn’t really matter. Over the next few weeks, he plays with the concept. Tests its potential and limitations. Finds a balance where the hunger’s sharp enough to get his attention yet doesn’t affect his ability to think and reason.  After a while, he’s honed the hunger into a tool.

xxx

“We need to talk.”

Matt lifts his head, turning his face in the general direction of Foggy’s voice. The words – though certainly ominous – don’t take him by surprise. Foggy has been fidgeting for the better part of half an hour, his breath hitching in a telltale sign that he has something on his mind.

“What’s up?” Matt asks, putting aside his books. “Something wrong?”

“No! I mean, yes. Maybe? I really don’t want there to be but…” 

“That’s eloquent," Matt grins. "Ever consider becoming a lawyer?”

Foggy responds by thumping Matt soundly with his own pillow.

“Just shuddup, okay? I’ve meant to have this conversation with you for ages,” Foggy eventually says, bumping into Matt’s shoulder as he sits down next to him in the bed. “Okay, so, don’t laugh, but I picked you up some pamphlets at the student health center. They’re not in braille, so I guess you can’t actually read them, but I could always do it for you. Out loud, I mean.”

Matt blinks as Foggy hands him some papers. He runs his fingers over the pages but finds the paper’s much too glossy for him to make out the print with his fingertips. He waits for Foggy to continue but the silence just stretches on, taking on an uncomfortable edge.

“Foggy,” he asks after a while, “why did you bring me pamphlets which I can’t read?”

“Because….” Foggy takes a deep breath before continuing. “Because soon we’ll graduate. We won’t be living together and I won’t be able to watch out for you anymore. Not like I have in the past anyway.”

“We’re starting a practice together,” Matt says, keeping his voice gentle despite the twinge of hurt. “We’ll be seeing each other every day. And I don’t need you to watch out for me. I might be blind, but I don't need a babysitter.”

“Jeez, Matty,” comes the reply. “I know that. Of course I know that. No, this is about that thing that you do, or don’t do, whatever, with _food_.”

“What?”

“You don’t eat right. Don’t…” Foggy swallows loudly. “You never empty your plate and you half-starve yourself before exams. You lie to people, to _me_ , to get out of sharing meals with your friends. Don’t be an ass and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Don’t lie to my face. Please? I couldn’t take that.”

Matt doesn’t have to feign shock. Forgetting himself, he stares straight at Foggy, taking in the fire-etched silhouette of hunched shoulders and a head hanging low. For all that he can tell with his limited abilities, Foggy looks as wretched as he sounds. There’s an iron band tightening over Matt’s chest. He feels like all the air’s been sucked out of the room.

“I don’t know what you need from me,” Foggy continues. “Like, should I tell you that you’re starting to look thin? Or should I _not_ tell you that? Because, Matty, whatever it is you need from me, you’ve got it. I’m right there with you. Maverick and Goose forever.“

Foggy’s heart’s racing now, his panic loud enough that Matt could easily lose himself in it. Instead he blocks out the words spilling out of his friend’s mouth, focusing on the sounds from the world outside their room. That little bit of distance allows him to think. He turns the problem over in his mind, running through scenario after scenario, discarding them all until only one choice remains. 

“Okay,” he says, his mouth suddenly dry. “Okay, Foggy. You’re right.”

Foggy pauses. Inhales, breath shaky. Matt can’t recall ever seeing his friend so distraught. He wants to believe that this justifies what he’s about to do.

“Kinda right anyway,” Matt lies, hands clenching into fists as he tries to find the best, most believable words. “It's not... like you think. I'm fine. But I do find it hard to eat when I’m stressed. Always have. I didn’t realize that it’d gotten so out of hand. I’m just sorry – really sorry – to have upset you. I’ll… make an appointment at the health center. You can come with me. In case they hand me more pamphlets which I can’t read.”

Foggy doesn’t believe him, at least not at first. But Matt makes an effort, making sure that his friend has no reason to worry. He eats three square meals a day and puts on a few pounds. Together, they go to the health centre. By the time they graduate, Foggy has finally stopped watching him like a hawk during meal times.

About the same time, Matt puts on the mask for the first time.

After all, what’s one more secret?


	4. Chapter 4

For a long time it works.

It’s like walking a tightrope, swaying with each misstep or strong gust of wind. But it works. 

He’s learned his lesson from last time. Appearance matters. People _– Foggy, mostly Foggy –_ pay far more attention to the social aspect of eating than he’s ever imagined. So Matt makes a point of eating in public. Of smiling and bantering even as he chokes down too much food. Of always sampling the things people – _again Foggy, almost always just Foggy_ – brings him, even when it’s the wrong kind of food. And it’s nearly always the wrong kind of food. 

Foggy eats for pleasure. He has favorite foods. Comfort foods. Guilty foods. He’ll talk happily and easily about his grandmother’s Thanksgiving turkey, his mother’s Sunday roast or his own failed attempts at making lasagna. Food matters to him in a way that Matt can’t wrap his head around. Holds some kind of importance beyond quieting the rumble of an empty belly and providing the nutrients the body needs to keep going. 

So, no, the food Foggy brings to the office or to movie nights is never the kind of food that Matt would willing put inside his body. It tastes too much. Leaves a film of oil or sugar all over Matt’s teeth and gums. Crumbles and crunches. Fills him up until his skin stretches. He compensates later. When he’s alone. He works out harder at his father’s old gym. Goes out more often at night and stays out longer. Draws out the fights, even though he knows exactly what Stick would have had to say about that. Even though he mostly agrees himself. Even though he beats himself up about it afterwards. 

Sometimes that’s not enough. Sometimes he wakes up the next morning, belly full and senses dull. That makes for bad days. He'll admit as much, at least to himself. But mostly it balances out. The food he eats. The energy he expends. His body’s almost always on the right side of hungry. Just enough to keep him alert and awake. To anchor and focus him. It’s all good. It’s all working. 

xxx 

Everything goes to hell after Fisk’s put away. 

Matt had naively thought that everything would get better. That the days and weeks that followed would offer a respite, a chance to catch up with the demands of life. His body’s damaged and he’s worn himself thin. To rebuild he needs food dense in energy and protein and plenty of rest. So he cooks frozen chicken breasts in the microwave and buys plain cashew nuts by the pound. Instead of putting on the mask at night, he crawls into bed. 

But the food sticks in his throat. And sleep doesn’t come. It never does to the wicked. 

And Matt… Matt’s definitely feeling the devil inside himself. Tossing and turning in his bed, he thinks of the victims of the bombing. He thinks of Elena in the morgue and Foggy in the hospital. He thinks of the trail of blood he’s left behind and of all the ways he could have been faster, better, smarter. And he thinks of how he’s just lying there, warm and safe in his bed, while sirens pierce the night and cries for help go unanswered. 

The hunger changes. From a tool to help him focus and function it becomes… something else. It takes him weeks to figure it out. Yet another few days before he can put the realization into words, even in the privacy of his own mind. _Punishment._ Due punishment for all of his failings. 

After that, everything changes. He’s kept two lists for most of his adult life. One of plain, easy-to-digest food items which just about fuels his body, and another list of things which he does his best to avoid.After the confrontation in their dorm room, it had evolved into a list of what he could eat when he was alone and what he would only eat when Foggy offered. Now it changes again. It becomes about what’s Allowed and what’s Forbidden. 

At best he can choke down a mouthful or two of the Forbidden. Meanwhile the list of what’s Allowed narrows. Every single day it narrows until it feels like he’s living on green bananas, microwave chicken and boiled eggs. He’s not balancing on a tightrope anymore. No, now he’s just falling. Falling fast and, even blind, he can see the ground comes rushing against him. 

So when Foggy finally calls him on it, Matt’s filled with dread, yes, but he's not in the slightest surprised.


	5. Chapter 5

“Got a moment?”

Matt doesn’t trust himself to speak so he just nods. Foggy closes the door, even though Karen left for lunch just a few minutes earlier. He crosses the floor of Matt’s office, hesitating for just a second before sitting down in the spare chair. Matt can tell that his friend showered before going to work but even so a sour smell clings to his skin.

“I guess you already figured out that I’m not here to borrow a pen,” Foggy eventually says. “You can tell from my heart racing or the way I’m breathing or something else equally insane and impossible.”

“Yes,” Matt agrees. It surprises him how normal he sounds. How calm. Composed.

Foggy exhales slowly. The chair creaks as he fidgets. His clothes rustle as he straightens up again.

“That’s not cool,” he says after a while. “I mean it is, ‘cause, hey, superpowers. But also, not cool.”

Matt doesn’t point out that he doesn’t have superpowers. Or that he’s just using the senses available to him to compensate for the fact that he can’t read facial expressions. In fact, his mouth’s too dry for him to say anything at all. He reaches for the water bottle only to knock it off the table. The thud as it lands on the floor sounds ridiculously loud and mocking.

“Let me,” Foggy says, on the floor before Matt’s had a chance to move. A moment later the bottle’s pushed into Matt’s hands. He doesn’t unscrew the top though. If he’s too clumsy and unfocused to pick something off his desk, maybe the thirst will help to anchor him where the hunger has failed.

“Okay,” Foggy eventually says. “This isn’t awkward at all. But yeah. Wow. Okay, Matty. Let’s do this. Let’s talk. Man to man. One bro’ to another. Just Maverick and Goose, having a little chat between friends.”

Foggy’s smiling at the end of his rant. Matt can hear it in his voice. And he wants to smile back. Desperately wants to be able to play his part. But he can’t. Because suddenly all he can think of is two conversations. One several years old, the other dating back just a few months. Both etched into his mind, if not exactly word by word then certainly close enough.

_“Don’t lie to my face. Please. I couldn’t take that. I don’t know what you need from me. But whatever you need, Matty, you’ve got it. I’m right here with you. Maverick and Goose forever.”_

And then…

_“What the hell do I know about Matt Murdock?”_  
_“If you weren’t half dead I would kick your ass, Murdock. Am I lying about that?”_  
_“Are you telling me the truth?”_

Matt hates throwing up. Has ever since he was a child. Not once – no matter how full, or guilty, or unfocused he felt – has he considered making himself sick on purpose. But now, now he just wants to fall on his knees and empty himself inside out.

Because he’s been lying to Foggy. He lied the first time Foggy confronted him about his eating habits and Matt’s continued lying about it ever since that day. Even after Foggy found out about the mask and Matt promised – promised on their continued friendship and partnership – that he was done keeping secrets, he still kept lying about food. And Foggy had been clear about what the consequences would be if he caught Matt lying again. Perfectly, painfully clear.

“Hey, buddy, you okay?” Foggy asks. “You’re starting to look pale.”

Matt doesn’t answer. He can’t. Overwhelmed by sudden claustrophobia he pushes his chair away from the desk. But instead of running his body just folds itself forward. He finds himself resting his forearms on his thighs and his head in his hands. There’s not enough air in the room, he thinks. He’s going to suffocate.

“I was gonna ask you to rate your level of stress on a scale from one to ten,” Foggy says, his voice close as he kneels down on the floor next to Matt. “But I guess this answers that question. Because that’s a ten. Definitely a ten. But I suppose I knew that already. Well, not that it would be this bad, I had figured on a seven or eight maybe. But I knew that you were stressed. That question was more of a… warm-up. To the other questions I need to ask you.”

Matt digs his fingers into his arms. It’ll bruise. That’s all right. He _wants_ it to bruise.

“Matty,” Foggy says, so quiet that it’s hardly more than a whisper. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be,” Matt manages to answer. “Please?”

Foggy laughs then. It’s not a very happy noise.

“Doesn’t work that way,” he says, rubbing a hand over Matt’s back. “You’re shaking, buddy. And I just realized how awfully bony your back is. I could count every one of your vertebras through your damn suit, Matt. Oh hell. I so didn’t want to be right about this.”

Foggy sounds nearly as heartbroken as he does angry. It should be a comfort that Foggy doesn’t want to leave. That he doesn’t want to end their friendship. But instead it just hurts more. Because Matt’s the one who’s forcing Foggy’s hand. Now that he knows that Matt’s kept another secret – just as bad as the one which had nearly destroyed them, and for just as long – Foggy won't have any choice other than to keep his word.

“I can’t,” Matt says, pushing Foggy away. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

When Matt stumbles out through the door, Foggy doesn’t follow. Matt makes it as far as to the stairs before his legs fold underneath him and he sinks down on the floor. His head’s spinning and he still can’t get enough air to fill his lungs. He doesn’t listen for familiar footsteps. Knows already that no one will come.

It’s over now.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s Karen who finds him.

Her heels clickety-clack against the hard floor and her perfume tickles his nose. Her clothes rustle as she sits down next to him and her heart beats steadily in her chest, but other than that she makes little noise. She says nothing, just sits there, her arm pressed warm and solid against his, and _breathes_. Slow and even breaths, each puff of air bringing with it the scent of bitter coffee and dark chocolate. 

After some time Matt lifts his head, unknotting the fingers from his hair and straightening his glasses. He feels wrung out, like a limp and dirty rag. He’s sure that he must stink of acrid sweat, even to someone without enhanced senses. Karen doesn’t seem to mind though; she just shuffles a bit to adjust to his new position. It dawns on him that, at some point, he’s been drawn into her breathing rhythm. 

He supposes that explains why the tight pressure in his chest has lessened. 

“I don’t think I can feel my butt anymore,” she eventually says, not complaining but rather making a casual observation. Just a minimal amount of shifting his weight around highlights the fact that his own backside’s gone numb. He must make a face at the realization because the next time Karen speaks he can hear the smile in her voice. 

“Let me buy you some coffee,” she says. “We’ll go to the place across the road. The coffee’s cheap, the chairs are soft and it’s pretty quiet there this time a day. Perfect for talking.” 

“Have a lot to say, do you?” he asks, wincing as his voice comes out croaky and defeated. 

“Oh,” Karen says, her hand wrapping around his upper arm as she hauls him to his feet. She’s either surprisingly strong, or he’s somehow lost more weight than he’s ever allowed himself to do previously. He shies away from the thought, unwilling to consider it any further. “You better believe it, Murdock.” 

He shivers, even though it’s not particularly cold, then allows her to lead him down the stairs and across the road. She orders two coffees, plain with no milk or sugar. He sips his even though it causes his empty stomach to cramp and clench in protest. 

To his surprise he finds himself telling her an abridged version of the truth. 

All along it feels like a betrayal… to the part of himself that’s struggled so long to keep the secret, yes, but also to Foggy. Sure, it’s easier to talk to someone who doesn’t know him the way that Foggy does, to someone who’d been a stranger less than a year ago, but Foggy deserves better. And Matt doesn’t deserve easy. He shouldn’t get away with keeping things from his best friend just because telling him the truth would be harder. 

But at the same time he’s so overwhelmed by relief that he’s shaking. Actually shaking, spilling coffee all over himself. Karen cleans him off with paper napkins, turning his hands over to make sure that he’s not hurt. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insists, attempting to pull away. It just makes her hands tighten around his wrists in warning. Her nails, perfectly manicured with no sharp edges, dig into his skin. For a brief moment he’s reminded of the time that Foggy held his hand through an entire lecture. 

“Yeah,” she says, attempting a joke, “well… you’ve been telling everyone you’re fine for a long time, Matt. I’m not sure your definition matches mine.” 

It’s the first time that pain leaks into her voice. He’s hurt her, he realizes. Not as bad as Foggy, but he’s let her down too. In a disgusting display of hubris he’s stood by in silence while Karen built herself an image of Matt Murdock as someone strong and infallible. His face heats. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, hiding his hands under the table as soon as she lets go of them. 

“It’s all right,” Karen says, all her disappointment carefully hidden away again. “You didn’t get any coffee on me. Or my Prada knock-off.” 

And because it’s expected of him, he smiles. 

xxx 

That night Foggy knocks on the door. 

Matt struggles out of the sofa and shuffles across the floor to open. He doesn’t stop to grab his glasses, even though he’s aware, on some level, that his eyes must be red and irritated. Leaning against the door, he wrestles with the lock for a moment before the door finally swings open. 

At first Foggy doesn’t say anything, so neither does Matt. His throat’s too tight for words anyway. Instead he wraps his arms around himself, finding comfort in all the familiar scents of his friend. He hasn’t earned it, but that doesn’t stop him from binging like a weak-willed child. 

When the silence’s finally broken, it’s by both of them speaking up at once. 

“Don’t run away from me again,” Foggy orders, stern and reproving like somebody’s father. 

“I’m sorry,” Matt says, because he’s too much of a coward to beg Foggy to never leave him. 

But maybe Foggy gets what he’s saying anyway. Maybe, over the years, Foggy’s become fluent not in Punjabi but in Matt-speak. Because he steps across the threshold and wraps his arms around Matt and holds on. Tight. As if he’ll never leave. 

“We’re gonna get through this,” Foggy mumbles into Matt’s neck. “We’ll help you. You won’t be alone. You’re gonna beat this, Matty. You might not believe that right now, but I do. I have faith. Listen to my heartbeat. You know I’m telling the truth. I have faith in you. ” 

Matt doesn’t have to listen to Foggy’s heart. He’s pressed so hard into Foggy’s chest that he can _feel_ it. 

“I hear you”, he says all the same. “I hear you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that's the end. Thanks for waiting and for the feedback and the kudos! I never meant for it to take so long to post the final part. I'm sure some of you had hoped for, well, something better. Something more final or something happier or maybe even something sadder. But I'm afraid we're all just going to have to settle for sharing Foggy's faith in Matt :)


End file.
